


A King, a Colonizer, and a Sunset

by beetle



Series: Diplomatic Relations [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Erik Killmonger Angst, Erik Killmonger Feels, Fighting for Justice, Finding Purpose, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Goes AU before Black Panther End Credits, Grief/Mourning, Grieving, Had he had his birthright, He could have been a great one, Hope, Hope vs. Despair, Hopeful Ending, Introspective Everett Ross, Killmonger was a person, Killmongers aren't born, Lostness, One-sided Everett Ross/T'Challa, Pre-Everett Ross/M'Baku, Pre-Slash, Quote: Wakanda forever (Marvel), Semi-crush, T'Challa and Ross understand this, They are Made, Very Minor Unrequited, Wakanda, pre-bromance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 12:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14811641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: In the immediate wake of order and safety—and the rightful dynasty—reestablished in Wakanda, Agent Everett Ross thinks about the nature of disillusionment, despair, and vengeance. And the last, lingering shreds of his old, short-sighted convictions and goals.Healsothinks about the nature of hope, faith, and sacrifice, and finds all three. Plus, renewed conviction . . . and a brand-new goal as he contemplates a good man, a good king, and a good people. Not to mention the most beautiful sunset in the world.





	A King, a Colonizer, and a Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: SPOILERS for Black Panther and indirect ones for CA:CW. Goes AU after BP’s pre-credits fade-to-black. Not _Infinity War_ -compliant.

In the end, it wasn’t a Wakandan—not even one of the fierce and loyal Dora Milaje—that found the king of Wakanda, weary and despondent over the body of his usurper-cousin, and rival for the throne.

 

After several minutes of watching King T’Challa kneel with bowed head over Erik Stephens’ body, Special Agent Everett K. Ross stepped out of the tunnel leading into the vibranium mine—and Shuri’s lab, above it—and into the unforgivingly vivid and beautiful sunset. It immediately struck his heart and psyche like a hammer-blow.

 

 _It’s . . . like something out of_ The Lion King, he reflected, and not without a large helping of irony, and the newly-keen awareness and _self_ -awareness that jolted and jarred him even now. Even after having learned and seen all that he had in the past few days. Even something as par-for-the-course as a stark, unspoiled sunset in the only African nation unravaged by the deprivations of foreign interests and ruthless privateers made him want to drop to sitting right where he was, bury his face in his hands, and weep.

 

But he didn’t. He _couldn’t_. Tears had never solved a problem or saved anyone, and the tears of Everett K. Ross, least of all. So, with sagging shoulders and spirits, he squinted into that vibrant light as if in penance and a chance at atonement for his own crimes and those of others . . . some, now centuries-dead.

 

It was only out of habit that, after a few seconds, Ross squared his shoulders as best he could. He blinked back tears and returned his gaze to T’Challa’s broad, but grief-bowed shoulders.

 

Ross sighed and shook his head, having no right words or even fumbling, form-letter condolences worth shattering the deep and grave silence of this anguished king.

 

Despite the easy-lazy initial comparison between the Disney sunset and a real African one, there was no such easy comparison between T’Challa and Simba. Nor between Erik Stephens and Scar. Between the kingdom of cartoons and this very real, very shaken one. _This real kingdom_ had real troubles, threats, and challenges from outside and from within. Two princes of the same bloodline, with genuine grievances against their predecessors and even each other, had—in their fight for the soul of that kingdom, and of humanity with it—nearly brought Wakanda to its knees. To _ruin_.

 

One of those princes was now dead, due in part to his own actions. And though Ross was mostly relieved that for once, the bad guy had been defeated, if not as cleanly as any of them might have liked, he couldn’t help but compare Erik Stephens not to a fictional British lion, but to Helmut Zemo . . . a man denied his home, his family, and his place in the world—indeed, having had all three ripped away from him in one fell swoop—and left only with rage and the relentless-undead goal of tearing down the world that’d wronged him so.

 

But now, having seen history repeat itself after a fashion, mere weeks after Zemo was neutralized, Ross couldn’t help but wonder . . . what choices had the world _ever_ left _Erik Stephens_ , other than hurt or be hurt? Usurp or be usurped?

 

Destroy . . . or be destroyed?

 

What choice had it ever left _any_ of the Erik Stephenses? How many brilliant young men had grown up bitter, unloved, and disenfranchised, then took their anger out on the world because that was the only thing they had left . . . that rage and bitterness and vengeance?

 

Everett Ross had, his entire life, been raised, trained, and molded to prize _order_ above all. And he had. And he still _did_ , after a fashion. But in light of what _order_ —a cruel, unnatural, unjust system, perpetuated and persisting simply for perpetuation’s sake and power’s sake, neither of the people, by the people, or for the people—had done to Erik Stephens, Ross found himself having a continuing epiphany about the difference between a fearfully unchallenged and unmerited order . . . and a _rightfully established and maintained_ order.

 

The difference between nationalism and patriotism.

 

Between preserving power and pride . . . and preserving the guiding principles and aspirations for which every nation, every _person_ should strive.

 

Between paying lip-service to an ideal . . . and walking that lofty talk.

 

Between taking the righteousness of a country and its ethos cause for granted . . . and the eternal vigilance which was the only thing that stood not necessarily between order and disorder, but between _good and evil_.

 

 _Justice and injustice_.

 

Adherence to an order without justice had created the Erik Stephens who would become “Killmonger.” Had “radicalized” him the way injustice turned so many down-trodden and despairing—terrorized and broken-down—people into terrorists. Into monsters. Into weapons that then turned, inevitably, unvaryingly, in the hands of their creators.

 

Erik Stephens had made his choices as an adult and had stepped over and beyond every opportunity to be better than what his circumstances had made nearly unavoidable. But then . . . how many real choices and opportunities he ever been offered? Even as a child . . . had he ever had _any_? Or had he simply had the few that’d been grudgingly given methodically taken and stripped away? Had he ever had any other road than the one that had lead to Killmonger? Or had he been winnowed into this fate as surely as night followed day, until he’d eventually been crushed under that yolk, and his broken self forced to inhabit a role it never should have? After a lifetime of few and dwindling choices, opportunities, and chances, had Erik Stephens simply acquiesced and become the villain his society had demanded of him? Shaped him into?

 

What adult could stand a chance against that which had ground them down from before their first breath?

 

For Ross knew that, had Erik Stephens grown to adulthood in Wakanda, cherished and loved, cared-for and valued . . . _Killmonger_ would _never_ have come to be. If necessity was the mother of invention, Wakanda had never needed a Killmonger and, with a king like T’Challa, never would. Creating enemies out of their own people was—King T’Chaka’s decision to leave his nephew in the loveless hands of the United States, and its many institutions and forms of incarceration aside—not the Wakandan way. In Wakanda, an Erik “Killmonger” Stephens was as unlikely a happenstance as a monsoon season. In any other country on this Earth, however, the United States, especially. . . .

 

 _He’s not Wakandan_ , Ross had told Shuri when she’d opened a holographic image of the mysterious foreigner who’d shown up at Wakanda’s border with the corpse of Ulysses Klaue in tow. _He’s one of ours_.

 

And that had been true. Seeing the devastation and havoc wreaked even during the few days of Killmonger’s nearly-catastrophic reign, Ross would have known the man for one of “ours,” in a heartbeat. In spite of the war-dog tattoo given by his father, Prince N’Jobu, _Prince N’Jadaka_ had been one of _America’s own_. He’d been put through a crucible that would have killed a weaker child—and many weaker adults—only to be tempered by that crucible and his own rage.

 

His sense of betrayal and injustice had burned away whomever he’d once been and might have become, leaving only the feared rogue agent increasingly known only as “Killmonger,” and spoken of in whispers, when he wasn’t being completely disavowed by his country and government.

 

After turning a child into a monster, then cutting him loose when he was no longer useful, America had let one of its sons drift and founder. Let him be further warped by despair and hopelessness, and the bitter need for vengeance that had likely been his only comfort and constant since childhood. Once “Killmonger” dropped off the grid so completely, that even S.H.I.E.L.D.—back when _that_ had still been a thing—hadn’t been able to get tabs on even his _probable_ whereabouts, America had washed its hands of its near-perfect killing machine. Shortsightedly uncaring whether he lived or died, saved the world or set it ablaze.

 

On the heels of this slow-motion avalanche of understanding and an unprecedented long-view, he was left breathless and shaken. Disillusioned and _lost_. For the first time in his life, Special Agent Everett K. Ross not only doubted and despaired of the country he’d been raised to serve without question or deviation, but he doubted his ability to continue in that generations-old Ross tradition.

 

For, how could he serve a country that couldn’t be bothered to serve all its citizens, and especially the most vulnerable, disadvantaged, and at-risk? How could he serve a county that would take advantage of that vulnerability and use it to hone a child into an unflinching life-taker? How many had paid the price of America’s ingrained, systemic . . . _order_? The order in which an innocent child could, from foster care, to the military—if the child was lucky, and the prison system, if he wasn’t—spend their life institutionalized, and only escape by way of the grave. Escape the country and world that seemed Hell-bent on creating, warping, ruining, then eventually lamenting the existence of its demons. Its monsters.

 

Ross closed his eyes once more, against tears that stung and burned. He knew that whatever numbers he guesstimated, he’d probably fall far short of the true horror of the world’s perfidy regarding Black bodies—Black children. The hands of the United States and so many other supposedly benevolent republics and democracies—homes of freedom and justice—were far bloodier than Killmonger’s were or could ever have been. The hands of Ross’s country and so many others dripped not only with the blood of its own crimes, but the crimes of every criminal and monster _it had created_ through wanton neglect, heartlessness, and hate.

 

Ross’s heart seemed to both clench and speed up at the realization of all that had been lost while pulling the world back from the brink, _again_ —a brink to which it should never have been driven. The loss of yet another of so many Americans gone unvalued by his country until that country had found a shameful and wicked use for his talents and brilliance. For his _pain_.

 

The loss of life and innocence and faith . . . of _hope_. Which had been entirely preventable, had those with the power and foresight cared to.

 

But they hadn’t. They never had and maybe never would.

 

Loss, in general, had dogged humanity since the beginning. And it’d upped its game since the disaster of the Sokovia Accords. Since S.H.I.E.L.D.’s compromise and destruction. Since the Chitauri Invasion. Since the damned _Cube_ and the covetousness of its power and promise—literally a _universal_ greed, Ross knew—which had set so much misery and death in motion.

 

Loss, after loss, after goddamned _loss_. . . .

 

“Were you able to stop the ship Killmonger dispatched, Agent Ross?” the king asked quietly, barely louder than the quiet, yawning vibrato of the breeze through and past the tunnel behind them. Ross’s eyelids twitched and fluttered open, still burning-burning-burning.

 

“With Shuri’s help, your Majesty. Every last one,” Ross said, just as quietly, knowing that T’Challa could probably hear the tired-labored beat of his heart, never mind the creaking of his nervous tenor. “But, ah, the U.S. Government might have to, uh, compensate you for the loss of one of your stealth-planes. And part of your sister’s lab. A big part.”

 

T’Challa sighed, and stood laboriously, as if weighed-down. A soft, sad lacuna passed between his rising, and his bowed shoulders sinking just a bit more . . . before straightening and squaring. Finally, T’Challa turned to face Ross: a tall, strong, in-every-way- _upright_ figure backlit by all the fire in the sky.

 

“That will at least give her an excuse to upgrade all of her equipment and operating systems. She begins to fret if more than a few weeks pass without making her lab _better_ ,” ‘T’Challa noted with weary fondness and no small amount of bemused admiration. Ross smiled a little because he, too, felt the same way about Wakanda’s Brainiac princess.

 

“She’s a determined young woman. And she, ah, certainly knows her own mind. I’m guessing that mind is a lot of territory to chart, too.”

 

“You have no idea.” There was nearly a laugh in the king’s quiet voice. The breeze picked up for a moment and even though the backlighting was too bright to see T’Challa’s boyish, handsome face, Ross knew that for a moment, the other man had been smiling. “Thanks in large part to you, my sister is safe. _Wakanda_ is safe. Nakia’s _alive_ , and . . . thank you. I am more grateful than I have words or resources to express, and I am eternally in your debt.”

 

Ross huffed incredulously. “I’d say you have that backwards, your Majesty. You and Shuri—and Wakanda—saved _me_ ,” he said around a sudden lump in his throat. It felt like his heart, for the way it raced and throbbed and ached.

 

“I dare say that we have made your job rather more difficult than it had been, Agent Ross. And more difficult than it had to be.”

 

“Huh. Maybe. And maybe that’s for the best. When purpose and goals become little more than duty and job requirements—defaults—maybe it’s best that the old order and world-view be shaken up, a bit. Or a lot. Or . . . completely toppled over the edge of a very high cliff,” Ross finally settled on, his right hand going to the small of his back and the completely-healed gunshot wound that, less than three days later, didn’t even twinge. He snorted, and this time T’Challa _did_ laugh a little, tired, but genuine.

 

“You are a good man, Agent Ross. And I remain grateful for your assistance and humbled by the allegiance and honor you have shown us,” the king said slowly and earnestly as he bowed, sounding far less drained and strained than Ross’s psyche. Because of the light, he was all deep shadows and the violet-flicker of the nanites in the panther-suit. Deeper and kinder to Ross’s tired-achy eyes than the fire of the lurid horizon or the indigo-speckled midnight of the busy mine.

 

Here, at the end of all things, as ever . . . was a fragile-strong ray of hope, preserved and still persevering against the whims of cruel and indifferent fate.

 

Here, was T’Challa, son of T’Chaka, King of Wakanda: The Black Panther.

 

 _And he was not dead_.

 

No thanks to the world, Ross knew, but alive was alive. And hope was . . . hope. Hope was the King of Wakanda—the _rightful_ king—still standing despite the world’s efforts to bring him and his kingdom to their collective knees.

 

That T’Challa still stood gave Everett Ross _hope_. And that _Wakanda_ still stood with him, in spite of Killmonger’s efforts and not-unseductive reasoning, gave Ross _faith_ that perhaps . . . just perhaps there was enough hope—and _faith_ —to go around.

 

Maybe around the whole world.

 

In that moment, Ross knew that he could never stop doing his best to help it along. To protect that hope and faith for as many as he could, and not just guard the forces aiding it, but join them and _further_ them.

 

Ross was no longer resigned to the existence of perforce evil . . . he was resolved to make sure that good, and hope and faith, were ever there to meet and answer it. To face it and _drive it back_ with commitment, fortitude, and vigilance.

 

“I . . . was glad I could help, King T’Challa.” Ross bowed and averted his gaze as T’Challa’s purposeful stride paused briefly when they were abreast: an invitation to walk with him that Ross accepted without hesitation, turning to walk at the side of the twice-forged king. Together, they stepped out of the pitilessly beautiful Wakandan sunset and into the soothing-cool dimness of the vibranium mine.

 

In the purple-tinted murk, lit only by the distant twinkle of utility lights and vibranium ore, T’Challa’s profile was noble and sad, like the marble bust of an ancient senator. Ross was intensely dismayed and overwhelmed . . . intensely _eager and hopeful_ at the knowledge that he’d not only give his life for Wakanda and what it represented, but for the king _and the man_ at his side.

 

In everything and everyone _T’Challa_ represented, Ross had found the first bright flicker-flare of a worthy purpose and ideal. He’d found his rightful place in this cruel, but not-beyond-hope world.

 

“After . . . after _everything_ , your Majesty, I . . . all I _ever_ wanted to do was help, y’know? Just _help_. And you and Wakanda . . . you taught me through example how to _do that_. I _know_ , now, and _I’m_ the one who’s eternally grateful—who’s in _your_ debt,” Ross said quietly, as the deepening beat of his heart and the lightness in his step—the straight-firm square of his tired, but still-strong shoulders—proclaimed the greatest, truest truth of his life. “I always wanted to help protect the good and make the _not-so-good_ . . . better. _Thank you for showing me how_.” Then he glanced at T’Challa, who was smiling at him just a little, bemused and wondering. Ross smiled, too, and bowed his head respectfully and sincerely. “Wakanda, your Majesty. _Forever_.”

 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> **Credits/Sources/Thanks :**
> 
>  
> 
> [Black Fangirls Unite](https://blackfangirlsunite.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [Marvel Cinematic Universe Wikia](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com)  
> And many thanks to [LittleLeotas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas/pseuds/littleleotas), for the encouraging feedback and patience.
> 
> Powered by:
> 
> My own compilation of folk songs called . . . [Folk-Out! Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlp-TNYE4qQVJGnLn-L1WUdSHhwS0_nax) (and it’s comprised mostly of the soundtrack to _Inside Llewyn Davis_ ).
> 
> I’m creative. Pure, outside-of-the-box thinking: that’s yours, truly.
> 
> [The bug on the Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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